


Keep Your Wits

by mab_di



Series: Keep Your Wits [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies)
Genre: Fuck Or Die, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 21:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mab_di/pseuds/mab_di
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They must have been eavesdropping on his conversations with Q for months. Bond is terrified about what this means, how much Q's abductors must know. He feels the knife piercing his skin, the blade slicing its way towards his heart. Goddamn, he’s been careless.</p><p>In which a fuck or die scenario occurs and Q must be fucked or die. Written for the kink!meme: http://007kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1142.html?thread=45430#t45430</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Wits

**Author's Note:**

> It's one of my favorite tropes, what can I say? This got surprisingly plotty for PWP but any and all plot is designed to facilitate fucking. Thanks to Magnolia822 and Im_not_a_lizard for reading and cheering.

KEEP YOUR WITS

 

“Where are you, 007?”

“Good morning to you, too, Q.” A metal-grey sky hangs behind the House of Lords and Bond can see nothing but miles of back bumpers in the skimpy morning light. “I’m stuck in traffic.”

“How prosaic.”

“It happens.” 

“Conveniently, it happens whenever M calls a meeting.”

Bond considers blasting Q with the Bach concerto he’d been listening to, but sighs instead. “Even I don’t have the ability to conjure traffic at will.”

“No, but I’ve equipped you with every manner of alarm to prevent you from oversleeping. “

Bond catches a glimpse of his own frown in the rear view mirror. “What makes you so sure…”

“Your voice, 007. It’s rumbling. You’ve not been awake half an hour.” 

Bond doesn’t want to examine how Q knows this. He is even less inclined to examine how it makes him feel. The hum of machines in his quartermaster’s office has gone silent on the other end. 

“Did you just mute me, Q?”

The hum returns. “Forget I said that. You’re late. What shall I tell M?”

“That I’m stuck in traffic?”

“This is not some idle staff meeting. I’ll come up with something.” There’s a click on the line and Bond is about to ask Q if he’s hung up when Q clears his throat. “Bond? Is that you?”

“No.” _Shit_.

“The line is tapped.”

“Why would anyone tap this line?” Q had given him this tiny button of a mobile about six months ago. No one else has the number. Q only calls from his personal mobile and they never discuss work. They talk traffic, the weather, and the temperature of Q’s tea. 

“I don’t know. But you should hang up now. I’ll make your excuses.”

 

xoxoxoxox

 

Several hours later Bond finds Q leaning over a counter in his office, grappling with the innards of a motherboard. Q’s trousers are pulled tight over his arse and Bond swallows around a thought. 

“Are you going to stand there admiring my arse, or would you like to know what you missed?” Q doesn’t look up from his work. He shifts from one foot to the other. As Bond comes around the side of the counter he has to bring his fluster under control. Q crinkles his nose to keep his glasses from sliding further. “You need to ditch that mobile.”

“Done.” Bond peers over the motherboard in curiosity, as though having Q near will unravel its mysteries for him.

Q straightens up and gives him a wry smile. “I imagine we’ll find out what that’s about in some unpleasant manner. In the meantime, keep your wits about you.”

“Thanks.” Bond arches an eyebrow, hoping to convey derision but knowing Q won’t care to read it that way. “You know I rarely keep my wits about me unless you instruct me to.”

“Yes, well.” Q brushes past him and retrieves a small black box the size of his palm. “You have orders. M will fill you in. This is your vehicle.”

“It’s here?” Bond opens the box and finds an electronic car key.

“You’re driving.”

“Is this meant to be a roundtrip?”

“You’d better bring that vehicle back to me, or the next time you oversleep I’ll tell M you’ve gone to Monte Carlo to squander Britain’s secrets at a poker table.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. M knows I don’t lose at poker.”

“Goodbye, 007. Please take care of that car.” Q goes back to the motherboard and Bond could swear he leans over like that on purpose. 

 

xoxoxoxoxoxox

 

A week later Bond is minutes from reaching his target, a hacker with a case full of codes that belong to the Queen. He’s speeding down an alley in the gorgeous machine Q sent him off in while the target flees on foot. The car phone rings in alarm and Bond considers ignoring it, but the car answers for him.

“007, we need you to return.”

Bond slows but doesn’t stop. “Fuck you. I’m 100 metres from my target. I’ve been tracking him for five days.”

“Bond, there’s been a breach.” M’s tone says critical and Bond slams on the brakes. 

His blood goes cold before M says the words.

“It’s Q. They’ve….” He’s in reverse and speeding away from his target, “…taken him.”

“Tell me.” Bond feels himself tense, his muscles sprung and ready, like an archer’s bow pulled almost to snapping. He shifts into overdrive and merges onto the motorway, headed for the airport. “London?”

“We think so. There’s a message. We tried to open it but it’s clearly intended for you.”

“Open it? How long have you…” Rage flares, cold blood heating quickly as he accelerates and picks his way around the sluggish traffic.

“Twenty-four hours. Maybe a little longer. We thought we could take care of it. We didn’t want to pull you off your mission. No one can crack it though. They want you.”

Bond rarely loses his temper unless it’s calculated to scare someone, but now he bellows into the car without a shred of control. “You lost Q over twenty-four hours ago and you’re calling me now? You bloody idiots!”

“Calm down, 007,” M’s voice is maddeningly even and Bond thinks it’s lucky the man is not close enough for him to kill. “You’re clearly who they want. We can’t afford to lose either of you. You’ve got to keep your head.”

“You might have thought of that when you discovered him missing TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AGO, you bastard.” _And Q’s the one you can’t afford to lose_. 

“We didn’t know what we were dealing with, we…”

“I’m headed to the airport in Budapest. Get me a seat on the next flight. What’s this message? Can you send it to me?”

“It’s web-based. Locked. It’s protected with a series of questions. They change every time we attempt, and fail, to answer them.”

Bond’s mind is racing faster than the car, and already the plot is taking shape. He remembers the tapped phone. “Questions you think I could answer.”

“Honestly, I’d be astounded if you could. But clearly they’re intended for you, so…”

“Read them to me.” Bond’s sight narrows to the path he’s picking through the now dwindling late morning traffic, acid fear blurring the rest. He hears M hesitate and he’s pretty sure he knows what’s coming. Something roils in his gut and it isn’t merely fear of what is happening to Q this minute.

M clears his throat. “Okay. The first is, uh…”

“For god’s sake, M, just read it.”

“How many cups of tea does Q drink daily?”

Bond was expecting something like it, but it makes him a bit sick to think what this means. He doesn’t give a goddamn what M thinks, but the implications for Q are entirely too much.

“It’s an essay question.” He’s not asking. Bond realises, whoever is reading the answers on the other end is looking for more than a multiple-choice response. 

“Yes, it is.”

Bond’s head spins with the many ways he could answer this question. 

“Are you ready?” M mumbles ascent and Bond finds the words as he takes the exit for the airport. “It depends. If he’s slept at least five hours and has no meetings and no agents need him in the field, two cups before noon and another one or two in the evening.” Bond takes a shallow breath and moves into the lane for the car park. He notes with irony that he’ll have to leave the car behind. “If he’s slept less than five hours and has no one in the field, anywhere between seven to ten cups a day. If he has an agent’s life in his hands, never more than two.”

He can hear typing on the other end of the line and realises M is most certainly not alone. Moneypenny. He’s detached enough to take notice of how ridiculous he sounds, but not detached enough from the immediate danger to give a rat’s arse. 

A muffled _ding_ is audible over the phone. “That’s it,” says M. His tone is clipped, clearly determined not to comment.

“Another question?” He screeches into the car park and pulls into the first spot he finds, pausing.

“Yes. Do you need to get out of the car?”

“Just ask the damn question.” Bond grabs his mobile and his coat and has the headset on before he hears M’s voice.

“Who are Q’s favourite and least favourite classical composers?”

Bond winces at the grin that threatens for a split second. With his coat tucked under his arm he dashes for the terminal. “Q doesn’t deal in favourites, but he loves Gorecki’s Symphony Three. He claims to loathe Bach, but I’m pretty sure he’s having me on.” He bursts into the terminal. “British Airways?”

“Yes. And yes,” mutters M. Whoever is reading Bond’s responses on the other end must have been eavesdropping on his conversations with Q for months. Bond is terrified about what this means, how much Q’s abductors must know. He feels the knife piercing his skin, the blade slicing its way towards his heart. Goddamn, he’s been careless. 

“One more?” He’s next in line at the first class counter and gropes his coat pocket for his passport. 

“I think this is probably the last.” M hesitates again.

“For Christ’s sake, M, you know what they fucking want. Ask the fucking question.”

“What are Q’s greatest physical assets?” Bond’s scalp prickles at the presumptuousness of Q’s captors. The notion that faceless men have thought this much about Q makes his heart race with helpless jealousy. 

“You couldn’t have answered that one yourself, M?” He knows it’s no time to joke, but he needs to get his equilibrium or he won’t be any good to Q.

“Apparently we don’t know Q quite as well as you do.”

“His mouth.” Bond hands his passport to the attendant and nods as he’s given a boarding pass. He’s on his way to the security line when he decides on the rest. It surprises him how easily the list writes itself. “His wrists. His hands. His arse. His mind. In that order.”

“His mind?”

_'You have a beautiful mind, Q.'_  
_'My greatest asset, I suppose.'_  
_'No, but it's on the list...after your arse.'_  
_'You're an adolescent, Bond.'_

“Just write it.”

The security line is mercifully short with only fifteen minutes to get to the gate. He stops before removing his headset for the security check.

“That’s it. It’s opening.”

“I’m going through security. I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

 

He dashes for the gate, trying not to think about what might be happening to Q this very moment. They knew where to strike Bond. They’ll know all the worst ways to hurt him. He’s been here before, many times. There’s nothing new in this, so he knows how to move. His muscles keep on. His brain doesn’t stall. He doesn’t break a sweat. He tries to clamp down on the wail he feels rising through his gut and into his chest, but there is no happy end to this story and he isn’t sure he’ll survive this time.

His flight is boarding when he arrives at the gate and it dawns on him he’s going to have to spend the next two plus hours suspended in mid-air with nothing to do but think. “What do you have for me?”

“Not much. There’s a map. The note reads, ‘Bond, come alone and unarmed or Q dies. Come soon, or Q will be dead.’”

“Fuck.” Twenty-four hours. He’s lost twenty-four hours. He’s so angry he could tear M’s throat out. “Have someone with a car at the airport. I’m going alone. Send me the map.”

“007, I’m not sure…” Bond hangs up and boards his plane.

 

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

 

Bond leaves a bewildered chap standing at the curb at Heathrow as he speeds off in the delivered Porsche. It’s not equipped. Unmarked. Unarmed. At least M understood the gravity of the situation well enough to have thought of that. He doesn’t need the map, having had two hours to memorise the route to his destination. It’s an industrial enclave at the edge of London, sprinkled with ramshackle residences and a few low-rise buildings that might be flats or businesses. The address is one of these, a four-story brick building with absolutely nothing to advertise its use from the exterior. The street looks abandoned and when Bond parks in front of the building, there isn’t another car in sight. He leaves the only things he’s traveling with, his passport and mobile, in the car and pulls on his coat. It’s getting on to late afternoon and the light is beginning to bleed from the November sky.

It occurred to him in flight that there was no point to a plan. They have Q. Q will be dead if he does anything but comply with their demands, whatever they turn out to be. He has no doubt Q will have been tortured. He has no doubt that seeing Q in pain is part of what they wish from him. Beyond that, he can only speculate pointlessly.

He stands at the heavy steel door and waits. A metallic buzz sounds and the door clicks open. He enters and finds himself at the base of a narrow staircase, lit only by a single bulb at the top of the second flight. He jogs up the two flights and waits at another steel door. A second buzz lets him into a small anteroom, and he’s immediately grasped by men from both sides. They pat him down thoroughly and take the car key. He doesn’t resist. 

He’s led into the next room, empty save for a masked man standing against the far wall. He’s short and slender and means nothing to Bond. Rings no bells. 

“You’re late.” The man’s voice is low and suggests he’s older than his slight frame appears.

“I know. What do you want?”

“You’re in an awful hurry for someone who’s waited nearly two days to come to the rescue.” _Two days_. “You’re almost too late. I won’t detain you. I want nothing more than for you to save his life.”

“I don’t get it. Humour me. I’m not as smart as Q.”

“I’ll let him explain. I think you’ll figure it out.”

“There’s a catch. What’s the catch?” 

The masked man nods at the two thugs at Bond’s side and they wrestle him to a door in the corner of the room. He’s resisting now, not because he doesn’t want to get to Q, but because he’s afraid he’ll make a mistake if he doesn’t get more information. He knows he’s the target here, but he hasn’t grasped their plan. 

The masked man is already gone and Bond acknowledges the pointlessness of his struggle. He relaxes as they usher him through the door into a dark hall. The building must have been low-rent flats at one time. It appears empty and unheated. There’s a wet chill to the air. He’s shoved down the hall past several numbered doors and finally brought to halt in front of one of them. 

The door has two, heavy steel bars across it, one at the top and one at the bottom. Clearly they do not intend him to get out once he’s sent in there. He considers the stupidity of allowing himself to be locked in, knowing nothing about the endgame. But they have Q. They knew how to get to him and he’ll do anything they ask. 

One of the barbarians at his side slides the heavy bars open and takes out a set of keys to unlock four different dead bolts. Finally, he uses his thumbprint to deactivate an alarm set to the door. The door is pushed open and Bond is let free to walk through.

He’s vaguely aware of the door clanging shut behind him and the locks being set, but his attention is elsewhere. There’s light from a bulb hanging in the centre of the small room, perhaps ten feet square. There’s nothing in the windowless room but a toilet in the corner, a couple pitchers on a small table, and a queen sized mattress, where Q lies, apparently naked under a flimsy sheet. Bond spots Q’s glasses on the floor by the mattress. The room smells of must and sex. 

Bond’s hands ball into fists as his mind races through the scenarios that led to the sight in front of him. He has to master his emotions or they’ll both be dead. Q’s life is in peril. He’s late. 

“Q?” Q is curled on his side, facing away from Bond. His bare shoulders are smooth and bright with a light sheen of sweat. Bond tamps down the physical reaction he has to the sight, the overwhelming smell that gets stronger as he moves closer to the mattress. Q moans.

“ _Don’t_.” Q’s voice is nothing like itself. It’s a wisp, cracked and unsteady. It’s a plea. “Leave me, 007. You can’t help.” 

Bond can hear shame laced under the words and it takes all his strength not to roar at the universe. He sucks in air through is nose, letting the scent burn his eyes. “What have they done to you? Did they…?”

Q curls up tighter and groans. “No,” he says. Bond can hear anguish in the word. “No, I begged them to, but they wouldn’t touch me.” 

He feels immediate relief, despite Q’s anguish. He’s bewildered, but the sight of Q’s exposed body, the redolence of sex in the close room, and the desperation in his voice draw Bond down onto the mattress. He places his hand gingerly on Q’s shoulder. Q jerks away and moans. And then an instant later Q is leaning back into the touch.

“Shit, you must go.” Bond feels Q shivering under his hand, sees his body begin to uncurl. Q’s legs spread and he hitches a knee, his hips turn to dig into the mattress. He’s nearly writhing under the merest touch.

“Are you hurt? You’ve got to explain. I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“I can’t. You can’t…” Q groans into the damp pillow beneath him, still unwilling to turn towards Bond.

“They said I was almost too late. Goddammit, Q, tell me what’s going on.” Bond doesn’t want to manhandle Q, unsure what’s been done to put him in this state, but the need to touch the body below him is overwhelming. He needs to see Q’s face. He wraps his fingers around Q’s shoulders, the heated skin lancing at his composure, and gently tugs Q over until he’s staring into fevered eyes. His face looks vulnerable without his glasses, open and breathtaking. There’s sweat over Q’s dark and swollen lips. He’s bitten them painfully. He’s looking at Bond with a wild and wretched fear, and something else. Longing.

Bond leans over him, his fingers digging into Q’s shoulders now. He’s trying not to shake him, but he needs answers. He’s _late_. Not too late. He can’t be too late. He grits his teeth and breathes over Q’s sweating, naked body. “Tell me. _Tell me!_ ”

Q licks his top lip and looks away, over Bond’s shoulder. “It’s poison. It’s one twisted poison.” His knees come up again towards his chest and he groans as he tries to roll onto his stomach in Bond’s direction. Bond holds him firmly in place and leans back enough to look down Q’s body. Under the sheet he sees it now. Q is hard, his erection tenting the damp cotton sheet lying just over his hips. The lines of him are beautiful. Shoulders; graceful arms corded with long, wiry muscle; the lines of his chest drawing down into his abdomen; and the rest—his legs, his arse, his hard cock—covered but framed clearly in bone and flesh.

Q moans and makes another attempt to press himself into the mattress, to hide his hardness under his thigh. “It’s okay, Q. It’s a poison. What’s it doing to you? They said I can save you. There’s a way. You have to tell me what it is.”

Q starts shaking his head, thrashing with weak strength against Bond’s grip. Whimpering breath escaping as he fights. “It’s not…you can’t…”

“Q, I’m not arguing with you. You insufferable, stubborn arse. Just tell me what I have to do, goddammit!” Q’s movements still and his eyes widen at Bond’s anger. For a moment Bond feels a measure of regret. Q is dying in his arms and Bond is terrified he’s been assaulted, but he needs to get through to him.

He knows Q can’t see him clearly without his glasses, but he seems to focus for a moment, come back to himself. “It’s sex, 007. It’s sex. I need to be fucked.”

Bond feels like he has cotton in his head, unable to believe Q isn’t taking the piss. Something dark passes over Q’s face at Bond’s hesitation and he jerks away from Bond’s touch, kicks out with his legs and scrambles back from him. “Go! You bastard, go! You can’t help me.” 

Q is dead serious.

“Stop. Telling me. What I can’t. Do. Just... Explain.” Bond grits his teeth against his frustration. “Please.” Q is clearly exhausted by the brief effort and slumps down, now curled wholly in on himself. He closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths before speaking quietly into the sheet at his mouth, eyes still shut. 

“The poison keeps me hard…needing… It’s slowly absorbing into my system through my… Semen is the antidote. Lots of it. It’ll neutralise the poison, flush it out. They said it could take days of fucking. But I’m already weak. It’s been in there too long. None of them would touch me. They said I had to wait for you.” 

Bond reaches for Q instinctively and then pulls his hand back. He understands now. He’s still not sure why or what they get out of it, but this aspect of the kidnappers’ aim is clear. His mind lurches in rebellion. There’s no question about what he’s going to do. The only question is whether there’s any way for it not to do the damage they’re after. “Q,” he says as softly as he’s able, “you have to let me. You know that. MI6, Britain won’t lose you over something as trivial as a fuck. And I sure as hell won’t let anyone else touch you.”

Q shudders, heat radiating off him. Bond recognises then that the smell of sex in the room is Q’s own. He’s been trying to relieve himself. For days. And the poison’s been eating at his gut. He’s been hard for two days. Bond aches in sympathy and feels himself begin to sweat. The guilt already gnawing at him is almost enough to paralyse him. Q has to know. “This is my fault.”

Q shakes his head almost imperceptibly and shoves a hand into the wrecked mop of his hair, pulling hard as if to distract himself. “Stop, Bond. Don’t.”

“Q, you have to look at me.”

Q opens his eyes but doesn’t look up. Bond takes a moment to shed his coat, shoes and socks, and to unbutton his shirt before he pulls back the sheet and lies down next to Q. His gets a glimpse of Q’s rigid, dark cock before his gaze catches Q’s eyes. “There isn’t much time to talk, Q. We need to do this. But you understand, don’t you?”

Q shakes his head again, but Bond is sure that Q does understand. He has to say it out loud. Honesty is the only chance they have of coming through this. “I’ve wanted you. They know that. This is a caricature of my libido. You get that?”

Q is trembling, a physical reminder that the poison owns Q’s body right now, that their proximity is painful and urging more. Bond slides a hand over the ridge of Q’s shoulder and slowly pulls him into an embrace, letting himself take comfort in Q’s warm, pliant body. He needs this to be about them, for there to be some choice in this, or they lose. 

Q lets out a whiny breath into Bond’s exposed chest and his hands push Bond’s shirt over his shoulders, tugging hard to get him out of it. Bond takes over and Q’s hands go to the button on his trousers. The brush of Q’s knuckles at his stomach is electric and the heat and smell and closeness to Q fill his cock before Q can get his trousers and pants off his ankles. Q still isn’t looking him in the eye. 

Bond tries to be gentle. When he imagined sex with Q he never imagined it gentle, but he’s trying now. He takes Q’s chin in his hand and coaxes Q’s gaze to his own. There is Q behind those grey-green eyes—the intelligence and the humour buried there under something feral. “Tell me you understand, Q.”

Q bites his bottom lip and drops his eyes to Bond’s mouth. “You need to fuck me, James.” His name is possibly the sweetest thing Q has ever said to him, and he is almost seduced beyond caring, but he pauses as he grabs for Q.

“I’m going to. But tell me you understand. You understand what they’re trying to do? That this is because of me.”

Q’s breaths start coming heavy and he leans into Bond’s chest, digging his fingers into Bond’s hips and pressing the length of his angular, lean body against Bond. He’s winded as though he’s been running and he starts to rut his rock hard cock against Bond’s thigh. “I’ve wanted you, too, you arrogant prick. Not everything is about you.”

Bond strengthens his grip on Q’s chin and pulls him in, tasting Q for the first time. Q’s plush, wine-dark lips open for him, let him in, and Bond can hardly think beyond the heady draw of Q’s warm mouth. He tastes of the sex in the room. It comes from Q’s lungs and is on the air he breaths into Bond’s mouth. Q’s lips mould to his like they were made for him—luscious, generous, skilled—and desire spikes, catching in his throat and forcing tears behind his eyes. _Fuck_. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. There’s so much at stake. There’s no choice here but he could get lost in this. Forget why. He wants to forget.

Q whines, his whole body begging with poisoned need. His hands are running over Bond’s chest now, pawing at him, dragging over Bond’s skin and down his sides, and finally find their way to his cock. Q’s long, expert fingers encircle Bond and he begins to stroke. Bond jerks into his hand and then grabs at Q’s wrist, _that wrist_ , to still him. He leans away from Q’s lips to rasp out, “Save it. We need to save it.” 

Q nods and rolls over, spreading his legs and slowly humping the mattress. He groans and the sound makes Bond’s cock leak in anticipation. “Q, I don’t have anything.”

“I’m wet. It’s the poison. I…already…I’m ready.” Q looks over his shoulder at Bond and gives him the look of reassurance Bond has been waiting for. “It’s okay. Hurry, _please_.”

Bond is ashamed to have wasted time on talking and kissing with Q’s life in the balance, but his petty need for this not to ruin them feels vaguely satisfied. He fleetingly hopes that Q is truly ready and then loses the thought the second his cock pushes easily into the tight, wet heat of Q’s arse. He exhales and grunts into the mind numbing pleasure that grips his cock and spreads like wildfire into his chest and through his limbs. “Jesus, Q. _Jesus fuck_.” He pushes and pushes and then stills when he’s balls deep, the disorientating sensation of balls on balls…he’s only done this very drunk and very fast…forcing him to look to Q for grounding. 

Q’s face is pressed on its side into the mattress, unruly hair hiding most of his expression. But Bond sees something exquisite in the turn of his mouth and begins to recognise the quiet whispers in the air as Q’s entreaties. Q is wrecked with want and the sight ties knots in Bond’s stomach, compels him to map Q’s back with his hands as he begins to rock. He has to resist the urge to hump him like a fifteen-year-old, overcome like he hasn’t been in memory.

But Q wants it. “Move, James. _Move_.” Q lifts his hips to shove back onto Bond’s cock, begging him to thrust, to fuck. Bond grasps Q’s hips then and pulls back, slams into him with a force that drives Q into the mattress, nearly winds Bond. All of a sudden the sensations turn to frenzy. He’s pulling back and thrusting in again, feeling his cock gripped and stroked inside Q, reaching for something inside. Again and again, the pleasure climbs with each thrust and there’s nothing else.

“ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.” He thinks maybe he’s losing his mind as he fucks Q in earnest, desire incinerating the blood in his veins, dizzying, life-altering pleasure. Q under him moans and whines, pushes back and ruts into the mattress in turn, all long, liquid sex, taking and giving like not just his mortal life depends on it. “I’m not going to last…” he breathes into Q’s ear, laying himself over his back, isolating the movement to his hips.

“I _need_ you to come, James. The poison, I need it.” The muscles surrounding Bond’s cock tighten and grab him, begging him to spill. He’s so lost he’d forgotten the goal, but he remembers now and he needs it too, so he pulls Q to his knees and pounds into him in quick, erratic thrusts, fast fast fast until his balls tighten and his orgasm roars through him. He’s coming generously into a keening Q, trying to keep his bearings to hold onto this moment, when he realises his hand around Q’s waist is hot, wet. Q came without touch, is still spurting as Bond’s own pleasure drains into Q. 

He slumps over Q and they both thump into the mattress, inhaling and exhaling in sharp breath, covered in sweat, sticky. Q’s come is on his chest and abdomen and over Bond’s hand. Dried come is in the sheets from days of unrelieved arousal. Bond’s cock is still twitching inside Q. He hooks his chin over Q’s shoulder and looks down to see Q is still mostly hard, his cock glistening and dark and stubbornly stiff. Bond needs to catch his breath before he can speak, wants to try to understand why he feels so caught off guard. He’s wanted Q. He can acknowledge that, even if it wasn’t like this and he’d never have acted on it. But nothing he imagined, no daydream could have prepared him for what just happened.

He wraps Q’s shoulder in the crook of his arm and brings his hand to Q’s forehead, trying to soothe them both with the touch. “You okay?” His voice is weak, doesn’t sound like him.

Q nods into his arm and lets out a tiny whine. “Mmmmm, yeah. I just….” Bond can feel Q’s chest rising and falling and slowly catches the rhythm, traces in it not the coming down after release but the building of desire.

“Q?” 

“Fuck, James. I’m…I’m so…”

Bond is soft and has slid halfway out of Q, but Q’s need is palpable and Bond experiences a frisson of panic when the reality of the poison and the danger they’re in is reasserted. “You’ve given a teenager’s job to an old man, Q,” he says, trying to lighten the mood but not at all unserious. 

He isn’t expecting Q’s breathy laugh. “You’re in better shape than most teenagers, 007.” 

“James.”

“James.” Q wriggles further back into Bond’s embrace unconsciously and drops a hand to his own cock, squeezes at the base. “God, I’m so bloody _horny_.” He arches and bears his throat to Bond and begins to stroke himself. “It hurts. It felt so good, when you were in me, but it hurts now.”

Q sounds more coherent, even while stroking himself with increasing vigour. Bond sits up and manoeuvres Q onto his lap so that Q straddles Bond’s hips and can let his head lull forward onto Bond’s shoulder. He’s still stroking himself, his cock angry and leaking in his fist and over Bond’s stomach. Bond reaches behind Q and passes a reverent hand over the swell of Q’s arse, enjoying the soft skin under his fingers before he presses two of them into Q’s hole. Q is wet with poison and Bond’s come, pliant from being fucked open and whatever he did to himself before Bond arrived. The image of Q fucking himself on his own fingers flashes and Bond’s limp cock twitches under Q’s arse. He pushes the image out of his head, guilty for the thought when it’s connected with Q’s suffering. He focuses on stroking Q inside, massaging until Q is choking on what might be tears over Bond’s shoulder. 

“Does that help?” Bond’s chest tightens when he feels wet on his shoulder, but Q nods ascent and rocks himself back on Bond’s fingers, fisting himself hard. He’s whimpering and quivers, seemingly close. The heat of Q in his lap, stripping his own oversensitive and insistent prick, and the way he’s hot and wet inside for Bond is bringing Bond’s own cock back to life, filling him as Q gasps and shakes through another orgasm. Q comes over Bond’s stomach and Bond pulls him close, holds him through it as he pulls his fingers out and strokes the wet over Q’s spine.

When Q’s breath has slowed moderately, Bond eases his head back and cups his jaw, leaning in for a gentle kiss. Q pants into Bond’s mouth, bites at Bond’s bottom lip and tongues in, letting Bond taste more of Q’s penetrating scent. Bond is fully aroused now. Without breaking the kiss he takes his hands from Q’s face to grip his hips, lifting him until he’s positioned over Bond’s cock. Q holds onto Bond’s shoulders and lowers himself down, still biting and sucking at Bond’s lips. “ _Yes yes yes_ ,” Q incants as Bond slides deep inside him. Bond’s cock is grateful for the return to that spiralling pleasure it found buried in Q and for a second he loses himself, grasps the back of Q’s head, tugging at the hair there and going after Q’s mouth with the ferocity of what he’s feeling. 

They’re still but for the dance of the kiss until Q’s breath hitches and he writhes on Bond, as though something has caught inside him. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he urges into Bond’s mouth and then takes care of it himself, lifting himself up and bouncing on Bond’s aching cock. Braced against Bond, he starts fucking himself on him, huffing with the exertion, face bright and gleaming with sweat. His head falls back and Bond can’t take his eyes off Q, mouth open, eyes wild—poisoned, Bond has to remember, it’s poison, but—he’s beautiful. Bond can’t remember what he was worried about…something…about losing something from this…every inch of him is alive with Q fucking himself on his cock, Q’s weight nothing and everything against Bond’s chest. 

This time is different, the pleasure gathering from his extremities and turning in towards his groin, all of it centred where Q is joined with him. His balls pull up too soon, but this is what Q needs so he doesn’t hold back, lets himself come without restraint as the sweet, tight heat squeezes his pleasure from him. Q starts to wail, “ _James, James_ ,” mixed with his cry as his own overspent cock jerks over Bond, leaking what little is left of his come.

“Oh fuck, Q.” He doesn’t know if it’s worth trying to speak, but his mind is scrambling to keep its wits. _Keep your wits about you_. Fuck. He’s not at all on top of what’s happening to them, his faculties dulled by the wreak of sex and pleasure high of Q’s body using him, getting used by him. He thinks vaguely that maybe he should have considered his attraction to Q more carefully, had a plan for it. In case of emergency. He’d always assumed he was strong enough to avoid this. 

Q is breathing into Bond’s neck when he slowly lifts himself off Bond. Bond’s cock virtually weeps at the cold, the loss of Q. He brings Q down beside him, wraps him in a tight embrace. He needs Q to be better. He needs Q to be able to think with him. Q’s mind is sharper than his even on its slowest day. 

Q is quieter than he’s been since Bond’s arrival, his breath evening out. Bond can feel the sweat on Q’s back beginning to cool. He wants to give Q a moment to recover, but he’s anxious. He looks down between them and sees Q’s cock has softened. Not entirely, but he’s got a semi now and Bond hopes that means some of the poison has been expelled. “Hey,” he prompts.

Q rolls onto his back, still in Bond’s arms, and blinks at the plastered ceiling. “It’s a little better.”

Bond exhales in relief. “We need a plan.”

Q is silent and looks away to the far wall. It hits Bond then that although he hasn’t figured out the endgame, Q most certainly has. He’s been here for two days. He’s the smartest man Bond has ever met. “Tell me, Q.”

Q sighs. “The poison’s still there. We’re going to have to…you’re going to have to…”

“I know. Tell me what they want. What comes after we fuck the poison out of you?”

“They separate us. Probably try to kill you. They know they’ll get nothing out of you, but they’ll torture me for information. They figure I’ll give it up now that you’ve raped me.” Bond tenses at the word and Q turns into his arms. “They think I’ll turn on you, on my country. Can you hand me my glasses?”

Bond leans back mechanically and feels around on the floor behind him until he comes up with Q’s glasses and hands them over. He feels sick. 

Q replaces his glasses and his owlish look unnerves Bond a little. He feels exposed under Q’s gaze, Q propped on one arm now and pulling himself a small distance from Bond. “James. This was not a rape.”

Bond nods and expels a sharp breath, but his gut is still turning.

“Listen to me. You’ve saved my life. And not that it should matter when neither of us can rightfully consent to this, but it helps that I’ve been attracted to you. The only thing not awful about this situation is you.” Q’s voice is cool and careful, articulating the words as though he’s giving a lecture on nano-chips. Bond is relieved, both by the words and the tone that says Q is back. “I didn’t want you like this, of course, but they’ve miscalculated. They don’t understand me at all.”

“They think you...”

“They think _you’ve_ been flirting with me. That you wanted me while I was indifferent. That I’ll give you up after you force yourself on me to save my life. They’re idiots.”

“They’ve been listening to our calls.”

“Yes, and they are Neanderthals so they recognised your blatant come-ons…” Bond scowls. “Yes, blatant. But they never picked up on my…subtler flirtation.”

“I’m not sure I picked up on that, myself. Were you flirting?”

“Precisely my point. So you see who we’re dealing with.”

Bond should be chagrined by the unflattering comparison, but he’s ridiculously warmed by it. But then…

“That means…”

“Yes, it doesn’t change much. I’ll still be tortured. Probably killed. But you and Britain can be secure in the knowledge that they won’t get anything from me.”

It’s obvious now. They were counting on his loyalty to Q, counting on him to barrel in here to save him, to fuck Q senseless for his life, without managing to think past Q’s peril. 

“This is a rather elaborate way to get you to talk.”

“Imaginative idiots. Domestic terrorists, I believe. Probably adherents to some fascist sect, but not likely to have enough sense to know what they’d do with state secrets if they get them. Someone got wind of a perverted poison and hatched this _brilliant_ plan.” 

Q’s voice is calmly derisive in the face of sure torture and death, after what he’s already been through.

Bond shakes the fear quickly. There’s only one answer. “They won’t touch you.”

 

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

 

Glasses set aside, they doze fitfully for what can’t be more than an hour. Q is still throwing enough heat to keep any chill away, but they’ve removed the wet sheets from the mattress and it’s beginning to dry under them. Bond wakes first. They’ve separated in their sleep and Q is on his stomach, one knee hitched almost to his chest. Bond regards him, notes the flush to Q’s skin and the speed of his breath. He’s going to need to be fucked soon. Lust rouses in Bond on cue, nothing about the situation adequate to dampen that response. But the overwhelming feeling he has at the sight of Q, the one that threatens to swamp him, is simple affection. It’s possibly the unhealthiest, and certainly the least helpful, emotion he could be feeling right now. 

The lust may be slightly shameful in light of the poison, but at least it’s helpful to Q’s well-being at the moment. 

Indifference might be cruel, but it would leave his head clear to make sharp decisions. 

This affection, his fondness for Q, is hazing his judgment so that all he can think about is protecting Q. There isn’t a plan he can come up with that doesn’t involve some risk, and he doesn’t seem willing to risk a hair on Q’s head. 

Worse, he’s having trouble focusing on their escape. Ludicrous questions are occurring to him, like whether there’s any scenario in which it would become appropriate for him to take Q to dinner. Can you take someone on a date after you’ve fucked poison out of them? He’s also aware that he wants to do this differently. He wants time to learn Q’s body, to nibble his ear and suck his gorgeous brains out through his dick. 

Q stirs and groans as he becomes aware of his body. “James.” His voice a deep exhale. “I need you again.” Bond doesn’t hesitate. He pulls Q’s back to him, reaches down to finger Q’s hole and finds him still wet, still soft. 

He lines up his cock and pushes in, the hot squeeze of muscle around his length as intense as it was the first time. He wonders if it’s possible the poison could be affecting him, too, because the way he feels at this connection, ravaged by it, abandoned to it, is unnatural. It has to be. 

Q doesn’t beg this time, but he moves, pushes back onto Bond and helps to set the rhythm. It’s slower this time, still not relaxed but almost a luxurious fuck compared with their frantic coupling of an hour ago. Bond hasn’t done this in years. Fucked his dick raw in one night with someone. He can’t remember when it was ever like this, like he’s lit up and utterly tied to someone else’s need. Q’s hand comes to cover his own where his fingers dig into Q’s hip. Q’s fingers pry Bond’s away and he slides their hands over his own stomach, so that Bond can feel the light trail of hair below Q’s navel. Q laces his fingers with Bond’s and curls them into a fist, pressing their fists into his gut like he’s trying to hold himself together. Q is exhaling sharply through his nose.

Bond leans up to get deeper into Q and starts to pound into him, his desire driving him to the inevitable end. From this angle he can see Q’s profile and the expression there, eyes squeezed shut and lips pressed hard, does something mad to Bond. He imagines Q crying in anguish, sees how overcome he is with emotions Bond can only guess at, and that instinct to protect surges up in him. He tightens his grip in Q’s hand, presses his chest into Q’s back and does his best to hold him as his hips thrust and thrust into Q’s buttocks. 

“Q,” he whispers into his ear. “God, Q, you feel so good. Are you okay?”

Q nods and relaxes perceptibly at the sound of Bond’s voice, eyes still shut but body sinking into Bond’s embrace. It’s there, a trace of tear at the far corner of Q’s closed eye. “I’m sorry, Q, I’m sorry,” he soothes, desperate to bring Q through this without pain.

They’re silent for a moment and the only sound in the room is the slap of skin where Bond is driving into Q’s arse. He’s holding his breath against the grunts that want to escape and listening for Q, knowing he needs release soon, that Q needs his release, but not wanting this to end yet. Pleasure pin-wheels through him, triggering sensation like trip wires long ago set and undiscovered. 

Q lets out a gust of air, as though he’s been holding his breath too, and then begins to moan. He sounds utterly wrecked and Bond watches with fascination as Q’s face relaxes, as though he’s been braced against the pleasure and has just now given up to it. “Touch me. _Please, oh God_ …”

Q’s grip on Bond’s hand loosens and Bond gropes lower, Q’s hand still covering his as he trails through the coarse hairs and then takes Q’s rigid cock in hand. The silky skin is burning hot and wet again, all of it ecstasy in Bond’s hand. He takes Q’s cock in a strong grip and begins to stroke, using his thumb at the slit and eliciting a strangled cry from Q. The world tips at the sound and he’s no longer just fucking Q but playing him like an instrument in his arms, in his hands. Their skin meets along the length of their bodies and Q is his entirely. He’s so close to spilling and knows it’s insanity to hold back, but he does. He concentrates on stroking Q, on giving him pleasure, as he thrusts into him, shifting the angle and getting deeper still. 

Q is trapped in his arms but moving the lower half of his body, his hips alternately jerking his cock into Bond’s hand and then pushing back onto Bond, deeper and deeper. His moans are mixed with an incoherent string of epithets and _James_ and _oh oh oh_ and Bond wants their mouths to be close enough to catch every word. He buries his head into Q’s neck, then licks at his ear, sharpens his tongue to caress the soft shell, excites at the _oh fuck_ he gets for it.

His balls are tight and Q is leaking in his hand. They’re both so close. They’re both clinging to this moment, the knife’s edge of pleasure before it cuts through them. Every muscle taut, the lethal heat between them, every nerve ending and thought trained on this, and then without warning the moment snaps and Bond’s orgasm explodes through him. He hears his own animal noise as if from a distance and bites down on Q’s shoulder. He spills into Q, shaking and overwrought with sensation when a few moments later Q shudders under him and comes in Bond’s hand. 

This time sleep claims them without reserve. Bond softening but still inside Q, and Q heavy in his arms. There’s no reason to fight it. They need their strength. They need to get their wits about them.

 

xoxoxoxoxoxoxox

 

Bond wakes to Q climbing over him, rubbing his crack on Bond’s sleep-hard cock. “Sorry,” he breathes as he braces himself on Bond’s chest and drops his head. 

Bond blinks the sleep out of his eyes and shifts to find a comfortable position under Q. “It’s okay,” and really it’s more than okay if he’s honest, but the danger is all Q’s here so he’s trying to be sensitive. “Are you ready?”

Q doesn’t answer but instead lifts himself onto Bond’s cock, answering with the way his body grabs at Bond, takes him in greedily as if he hadn’t already fucked Q sore just hours ago. Bond thinks it’s remarkable they’re both hard again, but somehow they are, Bond’s own cock a little raw but still reaching for the pleasure of pressure inside Q. Q’s cock is stiff and red. Bond can only imagine how sore his used hole is. Q grunts at the pressure and rests, looking like he’s only been awake for minutes himself. “Is it bad?”

Q nods distractedly, his unfocused eyes taking in Bond’s dishevelled state. “I think…aggghh…” he drags himself up and down on Bond’s cock once before seating himself again. “I think if we get out of here you’ll have to take me to hospital.” Bond freezes and Q shakes his head dismissively. “Nothing too serious. Some of the poison had spread though, when you got here. My kidneys, I think…it’ll be okay.” And then as though they were discussing the weather in the middle of a leisurely fuck, Q lowers himself for a kiss. It’s soft at first, a dry press of lips on lips, and then Q opens up, slides his tongue over Bond’s lips, turns to get deeper as he shoves himself back on Bond’s cock. 

Bond is caught between agonising concern for Q’s survival and the tantalising oblivion Q’s mouth is offering him. He rolls them so Q is on his back and he’s above, wanting to take any strain and effort on himself. He continues to kiss and nip at Q as he pushes in and out finding a rhythm that works for them, hoping whatever pain Q is in can be forgotten in these moments. “Tell me what you need.”

Q digs his fingers into Bond’s arse and coaxes him in at a different angle, forcing a soft moan from the back of his throat. “There, right there.” Bond hits him like that again, and again, and again, and Q’s eyes slip shut as he moans through it, his cock slick with wet now, looking ready to burst. Bond can feel his own climax building in his toes. Morning sex. Short and sweet. Or it would be. It could be, in different circumstances. “Just like that, James. You’re… _fuuuuck_ …”

Bond childishly wants to hear the end of the sentence. He leans into Q’s neck as he thrusts, hitting Q exactly where he needs it. Grunts out, “Yes? I’m?”

Q groans and starts to tremble under Bond, his control over his movements failing, “…fucking incredible…arrogant…prick…,” he chokes the last and is spilling between them without a hand on him. He tightens hard around Bond, and that with a few more hard thrusts ends in the catch of too much pleasure, the white out of orgasm, and he’s coming, filling Q with it.

When Bond comes back to himself he discovers Q looking up at him, mouth slightly open and eyes glazed. “Are you with me?”

“Yes, it’s just…” Q takes a few deep breaths and runs his fingers over Bond’s ribs. “…that part’s so good. I can almost forget.”

Bond wants to give him that. “No pain?”

“Not like that. More. I just keep wanting _more_.” Bond slowly pulls out of Q, feeling his come slide out behind him, and Q unconsciously humps his hips a little. He’s spent but still not entirely soft. They’d slept for hours and there’s still poison to be expelled. 

“I’ll be able to, again, soon.” Bond rolls to Q’s side and pulls him onto his chest. 

They’re silent for a few minutes, resting, complicit in holding their reality at arm’s length in the aftermath of a moment’s bliss.

Bond finally sits up with Q and retrieves his glasses so they can make a plan. “M will send people soon. It must be Thursday morning by now.”

Q adjusts his glasses and crosses his legs, his half hard cock hanging between them. He’s gorgeous and Bond has to force his awareness away from the erotic picture---Q’s lips swollen and dark, his glasses the only thing on his wiry frame, elegant limbs and unrelenting phallus. Bond can feel his arousal sparking already. 

“I’m not sure they’ll find us. They’ll have your car?”

“Yes.”

“And I believe they can scramble the addresses on this deserted block. We’re hiding in plain sight.”  
Bond gives him an inquisitive look and he shrugs. “They had me for nearly 48 hours before you arrived. We talked. They’re a little bit clever. Clever enough to have thought of everything except the things they didn’t.”

“They expected me sooner. M didn’t tell me.” Bond can’t hide his own distress.

“It’s okay. You’re here now.”

“I only saw a few men but I expect they’ll have us outnumbered ten to one when it counts. The best hope is to have the place surrounded, or at least an escape car, when we make a break. We can’t be separated. How much time do you think we have?”

“Twelve hours? Eighteen? They took me on Monday, expected you by Tuesday. I imagine they had plans to move us today. They’ll make adjustments for your late arrival. They won’t want to move me if I’m too sick to be of use to them.” Bond winces internally at the reminder that Q is still in pain, will probably be hard again shortly. “But I’m sure they have a schedule to keep.”

“This is my fault, Q. We should have backup but I was so determined to follow their instructions and get to you, I didn’t think.”

Q gives Bond a wane smile, and nods. “There’s a way. If you think you can get us out of this building, I can get backup.” 

_Unarmed, outnumbered, steel doors adorned with an overabundance of locks, and the need to protect Q_. They’re horrible odds but he’ll do it. He nods. “How?”

“I have a subcutaneous alarm. You just need to dig it out.” Bond blanches but he’s not surprised.

“Of course you do. I don’t have a knife.” 

“There’ll be something sharp in the toilet.” Q stands and stretches, arching his back a little, and pads over to the toilet in the corner of the room. He relieves himself while Bond watches, incapable of taking his eyes off Q’s arse. He can see the stain of come down Q’s inner thigh.

When he’s finished he flushes and takes the lid off the back of the toilet. A couple minutes later he’s untwisted a thin spring and brought it back to Bond, along with a pitcher of water. “Here, drink up. You need your strength.”

“Now?” 

“No, better to wait. It’ll trigger as soon as it’s removed. If M calls in the cavalry too soon we’ll never get out of here. I need to get a little stronger.” 

 

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

 

“One more time, James. One more time. Come for me,” Q urges into his ear as he surges over Q, drives his over-raw cock into Q’s used hole. He’s exhausted, every muscle aching from so much fucking and the shitty mattress and nowhere to stretch his legs, but still gripped with the frenzy of pleasure that has taken him each time he fucks Q. They’ve been at it all day, probably ten hours since they hatched their plan, and Bond is sure his balls have bled dry. 

Q’s own cock is only half hard between them, finally having spent itself. The poison is gone. He probably doesn’t need this fuck, but they decided once more for good measure. Or because they weren’t ready to stop. Q is holding Bond’s head, scratching behind his ears and purring dirty words as he thrusts, “That’s it, _God_ , you’re so _good_ , James. _Yesfuckyes_ …”

At the end Q drops a hand to his own cock and squeezes one more climax out, his arse going tight around Bond and pushing him over the edge. It’s like falling, draped over Q and giving everything to this. His own groans have Q comforting him, “that’s it, that’s it, that’s it…”

He slumps down onto Q, and Q holds him this time, running his hand down Bond’s back and nipping at Bond’s shoulder. 

“I think we need to make our move,” Q says quietly. 

On some abstract level Bond wants nothing more than to get Q out of here, as far away as possible. But physically he’s not ready to let go, not ready for Q to stop needing him like this. He forces himself to pull back, reluctantly pulls out of Q and looks over the body that’s owned him for the last twenty-four hours. There are light bruises on Q’s skin from Bond’s fingers and one he bit into Q’s shoulder. He is shamed by how possessive he feels, but unable to overcome the emotion. 

Q reaches over and retrieves the spring from the floor, along with his glasses. “Here.” He hands the thin metal to Bond and points to a spot on his side, high on his ribs.

“Shit, really? You’ve got nothing there.”

“It’s not too deep.” Q fingers at the spot, outlining the tiny disc for Bond and lifts his arm. All Bond can smell is Q’s come and his own, the sweat and stench of their bodies, and he doesn’t want this part to end. His eyes water a little as he concentrates on the patch of skin over Q’s thin frame and digs in with the not very sharp metal. 

“This is crap.”

“It’ll do.”

Q doesn’t make a sound through the whole ordeal, letting Bond scrape and dig until he’s gotten through the surface skin and located the disc, then works to dislodge it from the skin that’s grown around it. Bond has never admitted to anyone that he’s vulnerable to a queasy spell, but Q can see it on his face.

“Squeamish, are you? That’s interesting.”

Bond scowls. “It’s out.”

“Well, that should do it. But just for good measure…” Q grabs the pitcher by the bed and pulverizes the metal disc under it against the concrete floor. 

“How do you feel, Q?”

“Good and thoroughly fucked, how about you?”

Bond grins, knowing Q is still in some pain, that there’s poison that got into his blood in the time before he showed up. “Same.”

 

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

 

It’s more than an hour before the thugs show up. Bond is behind the door and ready when they enter, using a pitcher and his fists to fell the first three men through the door. There are two more standing guard outside and they’ve pulled their guns by the time Bond reaches them. They don’t count on Q though, and he manages to knock one gun with a thrown pitcher while Bond startles the other and gets to his eye with the thin metal spring before he can pull the trigger.

In the hall they hear voices. They only have moments before they’re swarmed, so Bond grabs Q by the wrist and they run together away from the direction they were brought in, finding a locked staircase at the far end of the hall. Bond hurls his body at it with all his strength but it doesn’t budge. 

Q pushes him aside, plucks the metal spring from Bond’s hand and uses it to pick the lock in less than four seconds. Q is dressed in Bond’s coat and boxer-briefs and looks like a criminal tart as he expertly works the lock.

“After you.” 

They’re on the ground floor and hear sirens and the screech of car brakes when five more gargantuan thugs burst into the stairwell to capture them. Bond’s need to keep Q behind him at all times is a handicap and Q has no intention of letting that be the case, so he hurls himself on one of the men’s backs while Bond is knocking two heads together. Bond hears curses and thuds behind him and spins to find Q nearly taken by the last man standing, who’s trying to rip Q off the other man’s back. Bond drops him with one crunching kick to the face and spins around to finish the man under Q. Though Q had done a pretty good job on his own. 

More voices sound in the distance and they figure they have a minute, maybe two, before they’re overwhelmed again. The door to the outside is locked, this time from the outside. “Fuck.” Bond slams into it and kicks it, denting the heavy metal but doing nothing to budge it. It’s probably barred from the outside. 

“Just keep pounding on it,” yells Q, as he runs halfway up the flight of stairs they’ve just come down. “The cavalry might hear.”

“Where the fuck are you going?”

Q doesn’t answer but Bond glances over his shoulder as he kicks incessantly at the door. Q is balanced on the railing to reach an illuminated exit sign high on the wall of the stairwell. 

He returns with the bulb and a battery. “Brilliant,” he says, clearly pleased with himself. 

“Plan?” asks Bond.

“The door is barred, but if you can bend it enough to get me five or ten centimetres of air, I can start a fire. Someone will see it.”

“We don’t have time.”

“You keep kicking. I’ll buy us some time.”

Bond protests but Q doesn’t listen and is back in the hall before he can stop him. He continues to kick, finally bending the metal where it meets the frame. When Q returns he’s carrying a metal bar he must have pulled off another door in the hall. He uses it to jam the stairwell door shut. “They’re coming.” 

The shouts get louder and finally slam against the stairwell door just as Bond has managed a small opening between the door and the frame. 

It’s mere seconds before Q has the flint from the bulb on fire and he gets the whole battery-bulb contraption through the hole in the door while Bond continues to kick. The pounding of their pursuers is fierce and it won’t be a minute before the bar on the stairwell door gives way.

A small but audible explosion temporarily halts the pounding on the door and then shouts from outside begin to come in their direction. Q’s smile is almost sheepish as Bond looks at him in wonder. “Bless you,” and he wants to kiss Q right now but he doesn’t. 

They’re saved.

 

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxox

 

Q is seated in the back of an ambulance and wrapped in a blanket, still in nothing but Bond’s coat and boxer briefs underneath. Bond doesn’t want to let him out of his sight but he has orders to report before he can go to hospital. “I’ll be behind you. There in an hour or so.”

“I’m fine, 007. You should go home and get some rest. I’ll be fine.” 

Adrenalin still has Bond wound up and he feels ridiculously anxious about what comes next. “What happened to 'James'?”

Q pushes up his glasses and regards Bond as the EMT comes round to shut him into the ambulance. “I’d like to get to know him better,” he smiles.

Bond’s wits scatter at the words and he’s left there, dazed, as the ambulance pulls away.

 

 

The End


End file.
